Two Birds with One Stone
by Insert Letters Here
Summary: Revolutionary War AU. Two soldiers fighting the same war, only on different sides. When the redcoat saves the rebel's life, their futures soon intertwines themselves with each other. The Briton starts to think that maybe… if they get out of this war alive… they could make things work.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Two Birds with One Stone**

**Pairing: USxUK. (Alfred F. Jones/ Arthur Kirkland)**

**Summary: Two soldiers fighting the same war, only on different sides. When the redcoat saves the rebel's life, their futures soon intertwines themselves with each other. The Briton starts to think that maybe… if they get out of this war alive… they could make things work.**

**Rating: T, M for later chapters**

**Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me. Neither does the American Revolutionary War. I own nothing but the plot. **

**19 April 1775**

Every step he took, Arthur felt his heart pound harder and harder against his chest- threatening to just shoot out of his chest, killing him before the war had even begun. Of course, he didn't know if it were actually a real thing or not- after all, they were just told at around five in the morning that there was a troop- coming from Boston towards Concord. But now the redcoats have spotted them- those rebels. Around seven-hundred men, including Arthur himself, were marching towards their possible death. Arthur wanted more than anything to turn back- to run away, to free himself from the burden of possibly killing somebody, to be free of actually getting killed.

But he knew- he knew all too well- that even if they let him leave, even if he slipped away, they would never accept him again. No- he fights for his country, he believes in loyalty. Their march abruptly stopped- and Arthur almost bumped into the man in front of him. Next to him were two strangers and he dared not look at them; as he feared that if they lay beside him dead after the war he would not be able to bare their faces that would certainly haunt him during the dark and sleepless nights.

His ears twitched at the voice of a man- an officer from the redcoats, who had rode forward and shouted something to the rebels. Even though Arthur strained his ears, the words were carried away by the slight wind.

It was just a few moments until a shot rang out, loud and clear. And then- Arthur could not think when men from his front, back, and side, charged. And as many men, perhaps more, retreated. More shots were fired; people fell, their blood staining the white of their clothes and their eyes cold and lifeless. Arthur felt dizzy and he reached for something to hold on to. But there was nothing he could reach for.

He felt the ground shake beneath him and almost got trampled by the retreating men on horses. Then he just ran. Ran for his life, ran like he had wanted to a few minutes ago. The wind felt nice, blowing against his face. The sun was up in the sky, the sky now clear, bright and blue, but all he saw was the blood that stained the white. His feet took him to wherever they could go, and he found himself entering the woods, not far away from the American troops. He wanted to stop but he couldn't, the fear of seeing battle again drove him farther away from the field that was littered with dead soldiers.

He finally stopped, in the middle of a clearing. His feet brought him a few steps to the side, and he slumped down with his back against the rough bark of an old tree. He was desperately trying to catch his breath, trying to lower the sound of his rapid breathing. Getting a hold of himself, he remembered what his father said during his early years of being a soldier. _Calm down, and after that you check yourself for any wounds._ The strict old man had said, or shouted in his case. Arthur put his standard-issue musket aside and shrugged off the red from his uniform. His green eyes scanned the white of his clothes, and he patted himself down. He sighed in relief when he found no injuries or gunshot wounds.

And then suddenly the wind brought to him a scent that was unrecognizable. He picked up his Brown Bess musket and stood up. _Crack._ A twig snapped, and an American rebel emerged from the woods. "Well, when they told me to scout the area for redcoats, I didn't think I'd actually find one." The man, holding his rifle up, said. "I hope this was a lovely surprise, then." Arthur said, his lips tilted up into a smirk.

"It sure isn't a very nice one," The American said. Arthur noticed that he was pale, and sweating. "I got nicked by a, I don't know, maybe a small knife. The others sent me out hoping that you know, I'd just die here instead of bother any of them." He shrugged, a grin appearing on his face. "Well, if you're going to die, then why are you even bothering to actually scout?" Arthur replied, his gaze fixed on the much taller man.

"I don't know; maybe so someone could just shoot me and get it over with?" The American said, suddenly dropping his rifle. "Shoot me, then." He pointed to his chest. "Shoot me right here." He said, in defeat. Arthur lowered his musket, and furrowed his thick eyebrows.

"I'm sorry; what was that?" Arthur asked politely. They were enemies; they fought for their own countries; they should have been at each other's throats already, one of them would actually be dead already. But here Arthur was, dropping his weapon and heading over to the American- _who was incredibly handsome, _Arthur thought.

The rebel let out a nervous laugh, his lanky body shaking with the bellow. "Well! Since we ain't killing each other, I'm Alfred." The American- _Alfred_ said. "Hello, Alfred. My name's Arthur Kirkland." The Briton walked over to where Alfred was standing. "You know, Mr. British guy, I thought you'd shoot me the moment I put my gun down." Alfred said, his blue eyes gazing down at the redcoat approaching him. "Hey! C'mon now, don't be shy; I don't bite." Alfred laughed again, this time, a clear, beautiful sound.

"W-well. I like my private space, thank you." Arthur said with a frown, inching closer to the taller man. "Now, if you don't mind, I might be able to fix your wound up for you." Arthur said, his frown not leaving his face. Alfred hesitantly hiked his shirt up, showing a quite nasty wound that ran across his stomach. Arthur's frown deepened. "That bad, eh?" The American chuckled nervously. "N-no, it's not. I can fix it, don't worry." Arthur lied.

He wanted to yell at the dumb American stranger, tell him that it was most definitely _not _okay, and that wound really could kill him. But, as he had experienced quite a few wounds nearly that horrible before, he was pretty sure a young man like the blond-haired blue-eyed man would be just fine. Well, maybe.

Arthur had gotten Alfred to sit still while he cleaned the wound. The American flinched as Arthur gently dabbed an alcohol-soaked cotton swab over the wound, and he didn't try to start a conversation, which Arthur was incredibly thankful of.

As Arthur finished wrapping the white bandages over the wound, he felt a stare- Alfred's stare on him. "What?" He asked, leaning back onto a tree. Alfred raised an eyebrow at him. "You're pretty good at this thing, you know, what you did for me just now." The rebel said to the Briton, causing his cheeks to heat up and redden. "Well, thank you." Arthur said. He almost added the fact that his father had gotten furious when he'd found out how Arthur had been watching the medics instead of being where he was supposed to wait for his father.

He knew that this was wrong, awfully, dreadfully wrong. He wasn't supposed to be exchanging banter with an American soldier, much less fixing up his wound. He was supposed to pick up his musket and click the trigger at the sight of one of those rebels. But here he was, anyway. Sitting side by side with an American rebel, listening to the man's obnoxious laughter and the constant movement of his lips, Alfred's tongue darting out every few minutes to moisten those perfectly pink and rosy-

"Arthur? You can stop staring at me now." Alfred said, those lips of his tilting up into a perfect smile. "I- My apologies, rebel." The Briton said, his lips tilting down slightly, deepening itself into a frown. "I suppose I should go now. Nice meeting you, Alfred." Arthur said. He pulled on his coat that distinguished him greatly from the American, and took his musket with him. Alfred too, stood, and he was happily whistling a foreign tune. "See ya later, Arthur." Alfred chirped with that silly grin of his, giving the Briton a supposedly mocking salute, before retreating back into the woods, where he had appeared in front of Arthur.

Arthur scoffed at the American's grammatically wrong farewell, and walked away. He was fortunate for his good memory, or else Arthur would've been hopefully lost. He'd gotten far into the woods, and he took a fair amount of time getting out, as well. By the time he reached back the English camp, the sky was a lovely orange shade. The soldiers raised an eyebrow at him as he passed them, and he glared at every single one of them. Reaching the tent he was looking for, Arthur entered tentatively. "Father? It's Arthur." He called out, and was immediately met by a man twice his age. "My boy! I thought you were as good as dead, I'm glad to see you alive, son." He said.

"As am I, father." He gave his dad a small smile. Arthur's father- or Captain Kirkland, to be exact, was a very, very important man. And while Arthur wasn't as important as his father, he still was invited to those strategy meetings the higher ranking officers often had, as an advantage for having a Captain as a father. It was less of an advantage and more to a disadvantage for Arthur, because most of the men that attend the meetings would be in a horrible drunken state, they'd never take Arthur seriously. And even though there was about a handful of other people that actually served a purpose during these meetings, those people seemed to think of him as invisible because they never, ever ask him of what he thinks they should do.

"Well now, lad, go off to your tent and have some rest. We'll have a short meeting later at eight o'clock _sharp. _Got it? Of course you do." The man said, and he let out a throaty laugh, pushing his son out of the tent as he did so.

Arthur stumbled a few steps and then straightened his posture. He passed some more soldiers on his way to his little tent that he shared with a stranger. As soon as Arthur entered the tent, he was willing to bet that his roommate was sharing a rather intimate time with some female and he decided to ignore them anyway. They were just barely inside a war and here were two people already lust-filled and shagging in a place that would've been quite private if Arthur really did end up dead.

_Not that anybody would care, anyway. _Arthur thought, and as his head hit the bed with his arm as a makeshift pillow, the man fell into a rather undisturbed slumber.

And undisturbed it was, until the very roommate that was under the covers with another human- very rudely so- shook Arthur up, saying that he missed dinner and that it was almost eight. The green eyed youth immediately jumped off what was supposed to be a bed, and his fingers started to move frantically up and down, pulling on a pair of trousers, buttoning up his white uniform, un-gracefully pulling on the blue then the red, and slinging on that musket of his.

Arthur glimpsed at the mirror and considered himself fairly presentable- at least for a bunch of drunkards who never take anything seriously- not even _war_, and some people who were not even willing to notice him. Sighing, the twenty five year old exited the tent, his pair of feet bringing him to the venue of the meeting. He prepared himself physically and mentally, as the last time he walked into a meeting, a bottle was flung right at him.

And he walked in.

Arthur was surprised, if not pleasantly then fearfully, as all the high ranking officers were actually _sober_ with stern looks on their faces and no less. What was even more surprising was that even though he'd come quite early- the man who had woken him had actually called him up at about half past seven- almost all the people were already pleasant. Feeling his cheeks heating up, and knowing with no doubt that he was indeed blushing from embarrassment and the stares of all the people in the room, he quickly planted his arse solidly onto the little chair right next to his father.

"Private Kirkland," His father said rather gruffly, and Arthur nodded, his mop of disheveled blond hair bobbing a bit due to the slight movement.

And before Arthur could return the hello, a man jumped up and started yelling in a furious tone. "The rebels have declared war on us! We must attack them back." The man drawled. He was one of the strategists- not a very good one, actually. Arthur was a bit surprised when he heard people actually agreeing. He said nothing though, and he glanced at his father, who seemed to have the exact same expression that was plastered on Arthur's face. He looked quite mortified, and Arthur bloody well knew _why_. If they actually planned on marching their British army to look for the Americans, it would be like suicide. Or homicide.

The mutters of agreement quickly escalated to roars of laughter and 'how the Brits are going to butcher those bloody rebels'. And before Arthur could really think about what he was about to do, he planted both hands on the table with an audible _'smack' _and he glared at each and every one of the people. "Everybody, please, think rationally. I know that I'm not a strategist- I'm just a private, but if you people don't get it through your bloody thick skulls that if we just march ourselves over to war it would be like handing ourselves over to those rebels- we would die before anything would start!" Arthur said in a dangerously low tone.

His father cleared his throat and Arthur awkwardly sat back down, a light pink dusting his cheeks. "My son made a fair point there," His father said, and Arthur knew that by 'fair point' he meant _'he completely hit the mark'_ but said nothing. "Charging would be an _idiotic _move that even my son here understands!" Arthur rolled his eyes at that. "I suggest that we keep moving though. But we should move in groups- twenty, maybe thirty. We are here," His father pointed at a spot in the map. "Those Americans would most likely still be around the woods." Captain Kirkland shifted his index finger to where Arthur had previously been with that American man, and he couldn't help but felt a twinge of guilt. Was it treason when he helped the man? Bandaged him? Even talked to him? No, no of course _not_… it wasn't treason… or was it?

His train of thoughts led him to those beautiful blue orbs and that pearly white smile that seemed so nice, and generous, and not something he would expect from an almost- stranger. Especially not from one that was an _American, _no less. He thought about how Alfred said his words, that American accent that made them so much more interesting than his own British one. He remembered how to younger lad had flinched when Arthur cleaned up that wound, and how he'd smiled so appreciatively-

"Arthur, lad, you with us?" A man, one of his father's closer acquaintances, called out. Arthur nodded curtly, "Peachy, thank you."

Arthur's dad turned around and spared him a look. "Well, we agreed on moving around but we will do it in just the one big group we are." The highest ranking officer, Arthur didn't pay attention who or what the rank actually was, dismissed them all, and as Arthur gave his salute, he thought. _What will be the odds of meeting that American again?_

**_Eh... I'm sorry if there are any historically inaccurate things in this story. I didn't know anything about the Revolutionary War when I first started this story and had to do a lot of research- well, you get the idea. I hope you enjoyed the first chapter- and if you did, kindly drop a review- it's much appreciated! _**

**_Thank you, and see you soon,_**

**_J. _**

**_(See? I gave my initial there~)_**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: Two Birds with One Stone**

**Pairing: USxUK. (Alfred F. Jones/ Arthur Kirkland)**

**Summary: Revolutionary War AU. Two soldiers fighting the same war, only on different sides. When the redcoat saves the rebel's life, their futures soon intertwines themselves with each other. The Briton starts to think that maybe… if they get out of this war alive… they could make things work.**

**Rating: T, M for later chapters**

**Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me. Neither does the American Revolutionary War. I own nothing but the plot. **

**Chapter Two:**

The next morning wasn't a very pleasant morning- and long story short, Arthur completely disliked what was served for breakfast. "Coffee and stale bread- Meals get worse by day." Arthur had heard a potbellied man mutter under his breath, and he couldn't agree more. He would've actually ate or drank something if it were perhaps some Earl Grey tea and bread that wasn't days old and threatening to mold, but he knew that with war and all happening, they had rations, and actually being in the war, they had very little, not very delicious, rations.

His regiment was moving today, and naturally, Arthur had to fall in line with the other privates, whom were nine hundred and fifty nine strangers. Arthur glanced up at the blue sky and frowned, remembering the blond man he had encountered the day before. He hadn't stopped thinking about how the younger, taller man laughed so warmly and smiled so welcomingly. He'd also felt fear stab him hard as he thought over the scene. Should he have killed Alfred, right there and then?

His feet dragged him forward, in a march that seemed well-practiced. He felt his heart beat match the rhythm of his movements. A thump of his heart beat through his chest every hasty step he took, and another one following the previous. Arthur subconsciously started to whistle a vaguely familiar tune, and he ran his fingers along the butt of his musket. Then a gun was fired hitting the man beside him. Arthur turned around briskly, his eyes wide in fear and shock as the Briton beside him fell to eternal sleep. Almost immediately, as the regiment was trained, they fired shot after shot at the small troop of rebels who had killed one of them.

Arthur fired; secretly hoping that his American friend was not in the group, many Americans retreated, in fear of death or knowing that they would lose, Arthur did not know; and his breath hitched as he saw a tall man run back into the woods. _Could it be…?_ Arthur immediately snapped himself away from that thought, and trained his eyes at the corpses that littered the ground. There were orders shouted, people called on, and Arthur couldn't catch up to anything until he heard his own name being called. Then suddenly it was as if his ears were catching every single word; _Catch those damned fools and kill them._

He gave his salute and followed this group of twenty into the woods. He turned back to see many dead, some loyalists, some rebels. Arthur swore to himself that this time he'd do the right thing, he'd kill, he won't chat nor fix wounds, but he'd grab his musket and pull the trigger. He'd prove to his father that yes; he can be of good use for the military. He'd finally be deemed a worthy son. He'd finally make his father proud.

And then- just like that, he saw a flash of blue from the corner of his wary green eyes. Arthur, not thinking, left his group and went to follow the blue- hoping that it wasn't just some butterflies or something stupid like that. Arthur praised himself for being so light on foot, holding his musket, his index finger set on the trigger, his gun already loaded.

_Shoot to kill. Shoot to kill. Shoot to- _Arthur barely had time to register their movements, and he found himself surrounded. Arthur cursed under his breath, wishing he'd actually at least brought the man next to him with him. "Lower you weapon, redcoat." A man said- in that tone Arthur used last night, only in an American accent that was almost exactly like Alfred's. It was as if the man was just threatening to pull the trigger of that damned rifle, and be the cause of Arthur's too-soon death. Arthur said nothing, and he held his musket properly, glaring at each and every one of those bloody rebels. His green eyes widened a bit as he saw that handsome American. But the man hadn't had that grin on his face, no. His lips were pursed so tightly that Arthur could barely see their rosy color, and his eyes lacked their marvelous shine that made them resemble the sea. Instead, it was glazed over with hurt and fear and determination.

"P-please just let me go." Arthur mewled, dropping his musket. But the man that spoke to him just laughed obnoxiously loudly. "I don't see that coming anytime soon, doll." He drawled, and Arthur almost gave him a tongue lashing when he heard shots ring out from nowhere.

That man dropped dead right in front of him, as did the man to Arthur's right. A few were just fatally wounded, and the others fled. Including Alfred. Arthur, still shivering from the more than traumatic experience, picked up his musket and scanned the dead that were scattered on the grassy terrain. He kicked a few, would receive a moan of pain, and he would load his gun, thinking that it was best to put them out of their misery, then the Brit shot them in the head.

It was horrible, really. Even though he was doing it for their own good, knowing that they'd die soon enough, he literally saw the blood that was on his hands. The blood was splattered all over. Surrounding his vision, etched onto the sky when he looked up, practically flooding the ground when he looked down.

Most of the other soldiers had gone to chase the ones that fled, and Arthur's mind couldn't help but worry about the bloody excuse for a human being. That stupid American, the one that shared a few hours with Arthur in that clearing, the one that nearly died, the one that would not hesitate to shoot Arthur, apparently. But despite that last thing, Arthur still hoped for the idiot to be all right, perhaps because he didn't want somebody so young to suffer this war, suffer death. Perhaps because Alfred had been more of a friend to him- even for just a few measly _hours_- than anybody else had been in the past twenty five years Arthur had lived.

A man put a gloved hand on Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur glanced back at a man about a decade older than him, smiling with sympathy. "I'm truly sorry for what just happened, lad. But we should really get going, boy. Ah, Arthur, is it? The other lads are already on their way back to where the regiment was, but I doubt that they'd still be there. God help us." The man patted Arthur's back, and turned around and briskly went away towards the place they'd been at. Arthur hesitantly followed him, trying very hardly to ignore the blood that had stained the white of his shirt, and the blue of the sky, and the green of the grass. His hands felt as if blood were drying on it, the vivid red slowly turning into a darker shade, close to maroon, and Arthur actually smelled the blood.

The putrid stench stung his nose, similar to a jab received at the stomach, and Arthur felt himself vomit a bit. He wanted to hold up a hand onto his nose, to block the unpleasant smell, but his hands just made it a thousand times worse. It was as if the blood was really on his hands- the smell came from them, the stains on his shirt, and the grass were because of his guilt-ridden hands.

Arthur almost had a nervous breakdown when they reached the spot littered with more of the dead. Their regiment was no longer there, as predicted, but all the people- or what's left of the few that were sent, anyway- were already milling around there. He headed over to the group of strangers, and listened to their chatter. They were planning- _hoping _to just travel on their own, perhaps actually managing to find a random regiment that would be willing to accept them, or perhaps, if their luck was to show up, actually get back to their own regiment. Arthur found that incredibly ridiculous, of course, yet he had no choice but to follow them. He _was _just a mere private- one that almost got killed about half an hour ago.

When exactly, he did not know, but suddenly the officers started walking forward, their steps quick and quite silent, as if they were on a mission to find something. Arthur was fairly sure that there indeed was a mission; to find their regiment that had practically abandoned them, and frankly, Arthur couldn't care less. He was only about half a day inside a damn war and yet he was already sick and tired of it, and it was already driving him to the brink of his sanity.

There was still that blood on his hands, and his shirt as well. The sky was blue, but he could still see how the usually lovely white clouds were tinted with that blood red color. He had actually gone far enough to ask people if there was blood on his shirt, and they would shake their heads 'no', look at him in a strange way, and walk away. Arthur just rolled his eyes after that; he was used to it, after all. Back before this dreadful war, he didn't have any friends at all. He didn't exactly expect to make any friends during war, either. Everybody always thought he was a queer person, shy and awkward, too stiff, too neat, too brash, too _mature, _and too humorless. That last thing would usually make Arthur grit his teeth and fume in anger, and sometimes he would just approach that person- unless it was a lady, of course- and beat him until he begged for Arthur to stop.

That had only occurred twice, god forbid that it would happen again, but twice was enough to permanently make all the people back home think Arthur was queer, mute, crazy, and had anger issues. Whenever he'd pass a person- and he meant it, any person- they would say something near the lines of 'that man is off his top', or they would whisper too loudly to their lover, or child, or parent, 'don't go near him, or he'll beat you to death'. Which, by the by, Arthur thought was incredibly exaggerated, as the man that had gotten to worse only suffered from a bloody nose and some scrapes on his arms and knees from Arthur's shove.

And that was barely any reason for anybody to call him crazy. He'd once seen a noble bullying some ten year old kids for absolutely no reason, but the other men and women who had witnessed it were just laughing their arses off. And when Arthur just shoves a kid when he'd offended Arthur, no, even when he had smacked the back of Arthur's head, Arthur would still get the blame. Poor, little Arthur.

Wincing at the memory of his not so pleasant childhood Arthur returned his thoughts back to the present day. He flinched as he remembered being surrounded, seeing Alfred's most gorgeous face, and then all that blood and death, and then his brain just decided to send him the wonderful image of him and the American rebel in the beautiful clearing.

Arthur smiled with nostalgia. It had been just yesterday, but it felt like ages ago. He remembered every single thing, though. The young man's beautiful lips, stretching into a smile that could make all the ladies swoon. He remembered those eyes that held all the emotion, whether the pain that he had suffered while Arthur cleaned his wound, or the happiness that filled them as he exchanged banter with the Englishman. Arthur remembered clearly, as clear as glass, that it was the first time the green eyed young man had smiled _genuinely_ in a lot of years. Those usual smiles he gave to his father were well practiced, of course. Nobody knew him well enough to see through the fakeness of that smile, to see that Arthur was practically itching to yell, or sob, or even outright laugh out loud.

Their small group was wandering aimlessly through the foreign land. Arthur knew that this way they'd never make it back to their regiment, and there would be only a small chance of them being able to find another regiment and find safety. No, those bloody bastards- the _rebels_, would definitely track them down. If not, they would actually just run into each other again, perhaps if the Brits were lucky, the Americans would be the mice and they would be the cats. Long story short, the green eyed Englishman bloody well knew how well this was going to turn out. And it would definitely _not _be at all, well. In fact, he would be willing to bet, as the pessimist he was, that this would quickly end up as a blood-splattered mess that nobody would bother to clean.

Their corpses would litter the earth, and maybe his father would pass through and see Arthur lay dead, maybe not. Maybe some Americans, maybe that Alfred lad, would see Arthur's guilt-filled body, stained with both his and his enemy's blood his musket still in his hands, unless some musket-robber had pried it out of the clutch of the dead man.

Arthur cringed a little, and refused to let that thought plague him anymore. No- he doesn't want to die. He has to live, he knew he does. Why? He doesn't know.

After a long and tiring day, with no food at all in Arthur's case, they had managed to pull out some sheets and lay them over the ground for the Englishmen to sleep on. Everybody agreed that it was at least better than sleeping directly on the cold, disgusting ground that was filled with those crawling insects.

Gingerly, Arthur let himself fill the last spot on the sheet, which was only half his width and made it incredibly uncomfortable to sleep on, until he realized that he was still wide awake. The other men were already snoring loudly but Arthur shut his eyes anyway, trying to block out the every growing noises. And despite the fact that all he could see was that awful blood red, he had managed to lull himself to sleep.

Arthur woke up almost immediately. It was still dark, and he was utterly sleepy, but he had felt someone shake his small frame. His green orbs doubled in size as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, revealing that it was in fact, Alfred who had woken the Briton. "Why, hey there Arthur!" The beautiful man said, in a volume a bit too loud for this time of the night. Arthur gave the younger man a smile- a real one, and stood himself up.

"Alfred! What on earth are you doing?" He hissed softly, glancing at the snoring strangers. "Ah, can't I talk to you for a bit, Artie? I mean, I just wanted to thank you for helping me out yesterday, and uh, I guess I wanted to say that I really like ya, Arthur. A-as a friend, of course," Alfred said, with an adorable nervous smile that made Arthur just want to either kiss him silly or pinch those cheeks. Arthur blushed when the words registered in his mind, and then he traded the small smile that graced his face for a scowl. "Don't call me that- my name is Arthur, nor 'Artie'. Besides, what kind of name is that, exactly? _'Artie'_." The Briton said, glaring at the taller man. The idiot of a soldier laughed, his crisp voice interrupting the beautiful silence of the night.

"Shut up, you idiot! Do you _want _anybody to find us?" Arthur warned the younger, and much more naïve boy. "Uh, well, I don't know Arthur," Alfred smiled cheekily- and quite unnervingly. "Maybe I do?" And with that last sentence, the American soldier had whipped out his rifle, pointing it straight at the Briton. Arthur looked at the rebel in shock. Hurt and fear were present in his green eyes, and his thick eyebrows had shot up into his hairline. For a few moments, it was just Alfred and Arthur, with the American's rifle trained on the Englishman, determination and victory dancing in those blue eyes.

Arthur masked his fear with a glare- perhaps one that wasn't as strong as his usual ones, but it was still something. Soon, however, they heard footsteps around them and Arthur was surrounded again. _Like Déjà vu. _Arthur thought, and then mentally slapping himself for thinking something that sounded French. "I'd say I can't believe you fell for that," Alfred said, a wicked grin on his face. "But you did! Let me tell ya somethin', Arthur, you're so stupid to have trusted me. And now, you're gonna pay for our soldiers, Arthur. We know you killed 'em, we know you did." And after that last line, which was said in a menacingly cruel tone, Arthur heard a gunshot fired, and all went black.

When Arthur awoke in the morning with a more than mild headache, and a horrible stomachache, he accepted the stale bread that were being passed with great thanks, and he stuffed it into his mouth, not really bothering about the horrible taste or how it was relatively as hard as a rock.

He stood up in a daze, a bit confused of the happenings from the previous. He had a bit of trouble separating the real-life with his dream, or at least, what he thought was a dream, since he was still alive and well. At least, he thought so. For all he knew, he could be a ghost that was invisible to about everyone else, but since the other soldiers had passed him some stale bread, he guessed not.

After considering about ten other horrible scenarios, one of them was that they _all _were dead and they weren't even eating real bread, just fake imaginary one, the soldiers started walking again. Arthur was relieved when that blood had disappeared from his vision, but his shoulders felt so much heavier, and his back felt like it was about to snap in to from the weight it was carrying.

Arthur knew, from the stories he had heard, that this feeling was not uncommon during war. It was some sort of guilt, and the other soldiers seemed to wave it all off as if it were just some pesky fly bothering them. But it was a bit different to Arthur, really. Even though he had aged well into a grown man, he still thought that nobody deserved to die unless they were physcopathic homicidal freaks. And the fact that Arthur had actually _killed _men during this war made him feel like he was entering a new, darker world with blood red skies and crimson-inked earth.

Sometime during the long walk under the blazing hot sun, Arthur started seeing that blood again, seeping through the white cloth of his shirt sticking to his skin. He tried his best to ignore the feeling and the _stench_, but it didn't really work, and the Brit kept rubbing his blood-stained hands on either sides of his clothed hips.

The day was long, boring, and _hot_. Even though it was still April, it felt as if they were meat cooking slowly on a spit. Arthur's clothes were soaked- no longer only with the blood only he could see, but also with the sweat he had produced.

Then when he really couldn't handle it anymore, whether the exhaustion, both physical and mentally, or the scalding hot burn that the sun was giving him, Arthur just collapsed. And naturally, he was trailing quite far behind the other soldiers, so nobody really saw the redcoat fade into unconsciousness. Arthur didn't really want to pass out, but he couldn't really fight it either, so the Briton just sighed and lay there, feeling certain that he'd have a horrible sunburn the next time he wakes up- _if _he even wakes up, and hoping that even if he did, everyone else would find safety.

What Arthur didn't know, was that there was a man making his way towards the Briton, his footsteps not-so-light, and his physique not-so-well either. And with a grin, that man picked the Englishman up, hauling him like he's as light as a feather. "Well, darn. What have ya gotten yourself into, buddy?"

* * *

**Thank you all so, so much! This is my very first Hetalia fanfic, (Not my first fanfic, because that was quite a while ago, when I wrote down almost all of the worst cliches ever) Anyway, thank you for the follows from just the first chapter. Thank for the favorites, and even the-quite small- amount of reviews I've gotten. This fic is way better from my first one, and I hope that as I progress, it'll be one of the greatest things I've written. (But not the greatest thing I'll ever write, because then I'd be a quite bad author)**

**Please let me know what you think bout this chapter- I myself don't really like it very much. Oh, and tell me if you find anything misspelled or grammatically wrong, because I'm neither British nor American and I've got no beta. Thanks again all, for reading, reviewing, favorite-ing, following, and other -ings!**

**Lots of USUK,**

**-Ja**

**(Dropped the second letter of my first name~)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: Two Birds with One Stone**

**Pairing: USxUK. (Alfred F. Jones/ Arthur Kirkland)**

**Summary: Revolutionary War AU. Two soldiers fighting the same war, only on different sides. When the redcoat saves the rebel's life, their futures soon intertwines themselves with each other. The Briton starts to think that maybe… if they get out of this war alive… they could make things work.**

**Rating: T, M for later chapters**

**Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me. Neither does the American Revolutionary War. I own nothing but the plot. **

* * *

**Chapter Three**

When Arthur first woke up, he noticed two things. The first, the most obvious, was that he was nowhere near his fellow British soldiers. The second, was that there seemed to be only one other person with him, wherever they were right now. And he darn well knew who that man was. Alfred had his back to the English man, and Arthur was incredibly happy to find his clothes intact, his musket lying beside him.

Swiftly, the older man grabbed the musket and made his way to the American. The rebel seemed to just have seen battle, or perhaps he had just clumsily tripped over a stone and tumbled his way down an incredibly steep hill. The blue eyed man had his darker blue coat sitting beside him. His white shirt was stained red, with his blood or another man's, the Briton doesn't have nor want to know. And when Arthur finally got behind the other man, he held the musket up, pointing it downwards towards the American. "Move and I _will not _hesitate to shoot," Arthur glared down, and paused for a while before adding, "Rebel."

Alfred didn't have to turn his head to know who said that. Though he did chuckle and followed the Briton's orders. "Alright, alright." The American said, with a roll of his devastatingly blue eyes that barely went unseen by the other man. "What were you planning to do with me?" Arthur asked, his voice firm, yet his eyes betrayed the sound. The green pools that resembled the grass had a swirl of panic in them, which Alfred did not mirror as his eyes still had that beautiful sparkle.

Arthur glared at the other man fiercely. "Answer me, damn American! Tell me," He hissed. "What did you expect to do to me when I wake? I can see that you have not deflowered me, at least, not yet. And I must say that even though I am incredibly touched," Arthur said, the sarcasm dripping like venom. "I cannot tell you that you will get away from it."

"So tell me, and I will not ask again, why am I here?" Arthur said, trading his musket with his knife and pressing the blade ever so slightly onto the other man's throat. "Tell me, Alfred." Arthur said; his voice that was strong and demanding a few moments ago was reduced to a low whimper that seemed very much unlike him.

"Arthur…" The American said, his hand reaching out to capture the Brit in an embrace, but thought better and dropped the arm limply. "Don't go near me, Alfred…" Arthur said, his voice soft and low and oh-so _heartbreaking. _"Please don't kill me…" The Briton looked up, and Alfred's eyes widened at the tears that left marks on his cheeks that had red splotches on them due to the crying.

"Arthur…" The American started again, this time brushing his right hand lightly on the green eyed man's cheek. "I'm not going to kill you… You know that, right?" Alfred said, glancing at the Briton again. When Arthur didn't answer him, he pursed his lips. "Perhaps I just needed someone to treat my wounds?" He joked a bit, a nervous grin showing itself onto his face. Arthur smiled a bit at that last line, and then his tear-filled eyes had taken a new emotion to them: worry.

"You hurt yourself? Was it because of that cat and mouse chase we had…? Goodness, Alfred, how long was I out?" Arthur turned frantic again, and Alfred tried to make an attempt to calm the redcoat down, but did it unsuccessfully so. "Calm your horses, Arthur. I just picked you up a few hours ago. You were dehydrated- almost dropped dead like a fly. You're lucky I was there, you know." Alfred said, and then passing him the canteen of water Alfred had found in his pack and refilled.

"What is this business with horses? And…" The Brit trailed off, accepting the canteen. "I think I should thank you, I suppose. So… thank you, Alfred." He raised the container to his mouth and sipped at it hesitantly.

It tasted nice.

Refreshing.

And not at all poisoned.

And waiting a few moments to make sure that the American really didn't try to poison him, he drank the water again and again, until he drained the canteen of its water. "I apologize, Alfred. It seems that I finished all the water." Arthur said, looking incredibly guilty. And at that moment, the American chose to laugh that boisterous, obnoxious, yet devastatingly charming laugh of his. Arthur couldn't choose whether to yell at the boy for laughing when he was _apologizing _(God knows how rarely that happened), or to turn red and flail his limbs.

Instead of shouting out strings of curses, or blushing like a young lad that had his pants pulled down in school (which had happened to Arthur _a lot_), Arthur did both. And so with an ungraceful flail of his arms and the heat quickly rising into his cheeks, he sputtered indignantly, trying to get some words out but failing. Arthur was known for his never-ending vocabulary of curses or anything that involved sarcasm, but here he was, with absolutely nothing to say. Not that he didn't want to say anything, of course. He just… couldn't.

Alfred was still grinning like a mad fool, unaware that Arthur could very well shoot him right now, though; Arthur supposed that the American knew by now that Arthur could never bring himself to shoot anybody. Or else the American would have already lain dead in a pool of crimson that belonged to nobody else but himself.

"I- I'm sorry, Artie." The American breathed out, still recovering from his sudden burst of laughter. Arthur narrowed his eyes at Alfred, and poked the man's chest. "Don't call me that. I'm _Arthur._ Not Art or Artie or anything else." Alfred smiled; the man seemed to have returned to his normal self. "So, Arthur… I reckon you're not going to kill me now, right?" The blue eyed man fidgeted slightly. The Briton looked up, emerald eyes trained on the American. "I don't see any reason to, so I suppose…" He trailed off. "Is this even allowed?" Arthur said, cocking his head to the left.

Alfred chuckled. "Well, err, no." He rubbed the back of his neck, and cringed when there was blood on his fingers. Arthur noticed this and his eyes grew wide with alarm. "Alfred… Are you hurt?" The Briton reached over to look at the other man's wounds. "Bloody hell… You have to change the bandages, you idiot." Arthur muttered, getting the blood stained shirt off of the American and carefully unwinding the bandage that he'd placed two days- was it two?- ago.

Alfred was humming softly while Arthur worked, the Briton's long, pale fingers ghosting over the American's bare back, treating the slowly-healing wound. "This might not heal properly, Alfred." Arthur said, a frown embedded deep on his facial features. "It's too deep, even though it isn't very wide. You might need stitches, you know." He said, while wrapping new, clean linen over the wound.

"And you're lucky it's not getting worse, too. Honestly, don't you Americans know anything about First Aid?" Arthur mumbled to himself, finishing up. "Now doesn't that feel better, Alfred?" Arthur said, as soon as the bandages were perfectly in place.

"I swear Artie-"

"Don't call me that!"

"Okay, okay. I swear _Arthur_; you act more like a mother rather than an enemy." Alfred chuckled.

Arthur raised a bushy eyebrow. "What you're saying is that, you want me to act like an enemy instead? I'll be very okay with that, you know." Arthur said, hand on his knife. "What? Oh, no! No, no! That wasn't what I meant." Alfred said good-naturedly. Arthur eyed him warily, and cautiously took his hand off of the knife's handle.

"What do you suppose we should do?" Arthur asked, his fingers tracing the bark of the tree his clothed leaned on. He only had his white shirt and dark pants on; the supposedly blood-stained redcoat- that maybe Alfred had washed for him because it looked very clean- was abandoned beside him as well as his musket. Alfred just shrugged. "I don't know. Honestly, I'm expecting somebody to just barge in on us and stab me to death for just talking to you." The American said.

"Same goes for me, Yank." Arthur said, closing his eyes for a moment. He tried as well as he could to savor the lovely scent of grass and the existence of _peace_ in a time where it was scarce. But Alfred wasn't going to let him do that, no.

Just as he was about to nod off for a short nap, a finger jabbed his rib. Arthur's eyes flew open and he groaned. "Alfred, can't you just leave me a-" The words died in his throat as he realized how _close _the American was. _Close enough to kiss. _Arthur thought.

The Briton felt his cheeks heat up and quickly pushed Alfred away from him. "Don't do that." He muttered, turning his face away from the American. "Do _what, _Arthur?" Alfred said- voice a bit too husky, distance a bit too close. No, actually, a _lot _too close. And what Arthur wouldn't give to just wring his skinny pale hands around that well tanned neck and press their lips together and-

"Arthur?" He heard Alfred's voice in the distance. The Briton turned his gaze towards the voice, brows furrowing over green eyes as he saw Alfred rather far away. Had he been imagining things?

"Um, oh, ah… Alfred! Ah, err. Yes. Yes? Why did you call, lad?" Arthur said, clearing his throat, aware that he was still blushing. "You okay? You look really _red. _I thought you might pass out or something. Here, have some water. And also, I think you shouldn't have the right to call me a 'lad' I'm twenty-one this year." Alfred said with a grin, taking long strides to reach the Briton, then handing him the same flask, but filled with water. "Uh… Thank you." Arthur said curtly, taking a nice, long sip of water. He hadn't realized how dry his throat actually was when the water sent a pleasant, cool sensation as it made its way down the Brit's throat. "Mmmm… Oi, Alfred!" Arthur called out, his eyes trained on the other man's back that was still unclothed. Arthur bit his lip when he saw blood already seeping through the white linen wrapped around the man's lower back. That's not very good… He must be in pain.

"Yes, Mr. Kirkland?" The American turned around. Arthur stood up from his spot and made his way towards the small lake Alfred sat beside of- if it could be called one. It looked a lot like a miniature lake- perhaps, a pond. "Your wound's not going to heal very well, Alfred." He said with a deep frown. Despite the seriousness in the Brit's voice, Alfred still laughed. "Relax, Arthur! I'm fine. Really, I am." Alfred said, masking his pain with a grin. He hoped Arthur couldn't see through the fake quality of the grin.

But Arthur did.

"You're in pain, aren't you, Alfred?" Arthur asked, his voice laced with worry, green eyes seeking the truth from Alfred's own blue ones. Alfred's shoulders slumped down, his façade crumbling as he showed the Briton- that he barely knew- his real state. And just like that, Arthur could see everything.

His green eyes were filled to the brim with worry and concern for this almost-stranger-barely-friend, and he carefully put an arm around the taller man's shoulder, to comfort him. "A-Alfred… If you want to- and if you can get the materials… I'd gladly stitch up your wound for you. It's the best I can do to repay you for… well, dragging me to safety." Arthur said, in a small voice, his accent sounding thicker than ever- or maybe it was just Alfred's splitting headache that made it seem that way.

Arthur was _still _looking at Alfred with those dapple-green eyes and dark, thick brows furrowed in the most adorable way ever- not that Alfred would dare say that out loud. The pain suddenly felt a bit- okay, a _lot _worse when Alfred actually showed it to Arthur- and he was pretty sure it would be the first and last time he'd do this. Ever.

It's not because he doesn't like it when Arthur looks so motherly concern and when the Briton stayed by his side, telling him that if he could get the materials- a needle and some thread, and more alcohol because they were running out- he would be able to fix the _hell of a wound _and get Alfred back to his normal state. Wait no, actually, he hated the latter. He doesn't like it when people took care of him because it made him look and feel _weak. _

And if Alfred was to be described with words and stereotypes, he is _not_ weak, nor is he a coward either. But when weakness is one thing, cowardice is another, and he thinks that he'd rather be called a coward than weak- because, well, sometimes, being a coward is being strong.

But that's beside his point. Because right now, Arthur was treating him, _him, _Alfred F Jones, like a weak link in their sort-of-truce when Alfred was actually the one who'd basically _saved _the British bloke from impending death. Well, okay, the Briton _had _taken care of the very same wound that he's taking care of _now_, but still.

So Alfred voiced his thoughts as he usually did, as loud as he could. Which was still, despite his current state- which was _horrible _as Arthur pointed out more than a few times by now- very loud. "You know Artie; I don't like it when people do this kind of stuff to me." He said with a tilt of his- perfect, Arthur noted- lips.

"What kind of 'stuff'?" Arthur asked, his head cocked to one side. _Like a confused puppy. _Alfred thought. "Well, this kind of stuff. Y'know… Takin' care of me when I _clearly _don't need to be taken care of, like they think that I'm… _weak _or something." Alfred whispered that last part, only saying 'or something' so that Arthur wouldn't know that he really meant the 'weak' part.

"Alfred… Just because someone is taking care of you does not mean that they believe you are weak." Arthur insisted. "Now, let's get you some sleep. I'll take first watch." Arthur said, and then that was when the American actually realized that it was already getting quite dark- the sun had set, the sky was already progressing into a darker, deeper blue. It was funny how time flew so fast with good company. Wait, did he actually think that? Oh.

The Briton said more words that Alfred had zoned out on, and then suddenly the American felt himself being hoisted up from the ground, which left him a bit stunned, until he realized it was Arthur's arm that had latched itself onto Alfred's and tugged his 'lazy arse' off of the earth. Alfred was more than a bit surprised at the amount of energy the small-framed Brit had, but walked- more like shuffled- towards the makeshift bed, which really was more of a sheet over cold, hard dirt than a bed. And it took Arthur some coaxing and pushing to get the other man to actually lie down, until _finally _Alfred was sleeping on his side.

"Now, you sleep tight, and I'll wake you up in the morning." The Briton said, in a tone that clearly meant he didn't want the American to argue with him. Yet Alfred couldn't stop himself from opening his mouth to speak. "But Arthur… You have to get a good rest too, you know. Besides, I ain't sleepy yet, anyway. I'll stay up with you." The American said, groaning as he turn to lay on his back, and giving out a sharp hiss as his wounded back made contact with the sheet-covered ground. Then he slowly progressed upwards to sit up.

He looked at Arthur with his blue eyes- darker in the night, but still glinting familiarly, and Arthur just couldn't say _no. _The Briton groaned in frustration. "Fine," He said gruffly- rather out of character, because he was _not _a rude or rough man. "But don't blame me if you're too tired to get your needle, thread and alcohol from your- do you travel in regiments? -regiment or something, tomorrow." _Damn those sparkling blue eyes. _Arthur cursed in the back of his mind.

For a moment, Arthur thought he saw Alfred's eyes light up with happiness, and his heart fluttered at the sight, before those blue eyes- that should be happy and jovial and everything positive- turned sad and desperate and _scared. _Alfred laughed, anyway. "Alright-y, Arthur!" He said, grinning. Arthur felt himself grin, too, seeing the American so happy and so young, and _not deserving to fight this war. _

Arthur sighed, not in relief, not in exasperation, but maybe it was a content sigh- and he offered a hand to pull the other man up, and he nearly, _nearly, _yelped when he saw that Alfred was already standing upright, positively towering over his small stature and a grin on his face, his eyes lighting up like it was Christmas morning. "We can talk by the lake-pond thing, whatever it is." Arthur said, already on his way to said place. "Okay!" Alfred said, his voice a bit too excited, his grin _still _plastered on that beautiful- handsome- face.

"Shush, Alfred… There's a chance that my regiment or yours would be near us, you know." The Brit said, patting the space beside him, gesturing for the American to sit. "Oh, oh. Sorry, Artie." Alfred whispered, and it was followed by a very unmanly giggle. Arthur sighed again, and rolled his eyes. "Don't call me that." He said sternly- voice still low, however- and he proceeded to smack the back of Alfred's head, causing a string of curses to run out of the rebel's mouth.

_The mouth that he so desperately wanted to kiss._

But Arthur ignored that thought and smiled mockingly. "Next time it won't be that considerate." He said, taking his boots off, rolled up his pants, and dunking his two feet into the nice, cool water. Arthur hummed with pleasure, and glanced at Alfred.

"What?" The American said, blush creeping onto his face- and he hoped, _hoped so desperately, _that the Brit couldn't see it in the darkness. "Don't you want to put your feet in, too?" The words left Arthur's mouth as he couldn't think of another reason for looking at Alfred. "Oh. Oh, right. That's a really good idea, Arthur!" Alfred said, his voice sounding utterly confused, but he took off his boots and imitated the older man's actions, anyway.

So they sat in the silence together. The moon is high up in the sky, giving off beautiful light that glinted off the American's shiny blond hair. Light that let Arthur see just a bit of the blue in his eyes, a bit of the flash of white that his teeth was, and shining at that _oh-so wonderful _toned body. The water would be still, if not for Alfred's feet moving, causing small waves to form, to the American's delight. This was the true definition of beauty, for Arthur.

The moon, the starts, the earth, and the sparkling blue water, _this _was beauty. _And the American Adonis beside me. _Arthur added. "Hey, Arthur?" Alfred's tentative voice broke the silence, it was a tiny whisper, barely audible, and Arthur's gaze turned away from the water that mirrored the night sky towards the American, whose eyes were shining like stars. _Cliché, but it's the truth. _

"Yes, Alfred?" Arthur answered, voice as soft as Alfred's only reaching the American's ears because the wind had captured the words and brought them forth. "Why… Why do you fight in this war? Why do we have to… fight?" The rebel said, his eyes staring into Arthur's own, seeking an answer from the British man. "Well Alfred… Many people fight for many reasons. I… I do it because I'm a loyal man." Arthur said, biting his lip. _And I have to prove to my father that I'm just as good as my brothers. _He said to himself.

"Why do you ask?" He murmured, green still locked with blue, and he decided that he was entranced by the color- that color- _blue, _and it was now his favorite. "N-no reason… I just wondered, is all…" Alfred sighed, averting his eyes, breaking their eye contact and looking down to the ground.

"How about you? Why do you… fight? You're still young, you shouldn't do this." Arthur's fingertips brushing against the other man's fingers. He blushed.

"I guess I just want our country to be free. I don't know, Arthur. I'm not sure about anything, anymore, now." The America said, voice sounding almost sad. "But Alfred… If you weren't sure, you shouldn't have signed up, then. You shouldn't risk your life for this, you know." Arthur frowned, brows furrowing, creating a dimple in the middle of them- a dimple that Alfred so desperately fought the urge of to _kiss. _

"Hey, if you're telling me that I shouldn't have signed up for this war, why did _you _sign up?" Alfred asked with curiosity. "I- I told you already. I'm a loyal man." He sighed, running a hand through his sandy blond locks. "And it was my father who did it, anyway." He muttered under his breath. Sadly, the American's ears picked up his words.

"So you were practically _forced _into this?" Alfred said- voice rising- in definite anger, though at Arthur or Arthur's father, the Briton was unsure. "W-well, to a certain extent, yes. But-" Arthur's words died when the American's face was only inches from his. _Oh lord, please don't let this be some stupid dream or a hallucination or-_

Warm lips were pressed onto Arthur's own lips, and as quickly as it happened, the quicker it stopped. The American looked at the loyalist rather awkwardly. "Uh- um… Sorry." He said, hand rubbing the back of his neck- which Arthur had learned was how he expressed his discomfort. Arthur was still in a daze- from the shock of actually being _kissed_, and he could not answer the rebel. Taking his silence as rejection, Alfred tried to scramble away from Arthur, when he felt a firm grip on his wrist.

"D-don't go." Arthur blurted, green eyes glazed over with an unfamiliar emotion. "I-I mean… There's nothing to be sorry for. I-I think I… Um…" He couldn't _say _the words, so he lunged at the American and pressed his lips onto Alfred's. He did it quickly, much like the kiss Alfred gave him, and then when he pulled away he was absolutely, positively _blushing. _"I hope that explained enough, twat." Arthur said, a scowl planted on his face, though he couldn't hide the glee that danced in his green eyes.

"If it meant that you like me as much as _I _like _you_, then it did." Alfred chuckled, relaxing a bit.

When Arthur didn't respond to that, Alfred glanced at the Brit. _His _Brit. Arthur's eyes were still wide- _and it was so cute like that_- and his fingertips were lightly pressed onto his lips, as if he hadn't believed that they'd just kissed. Twice. "Hey, Arthur?" Alfred called out softly; fingers grabbing the other man's chin lightly, turning his head to look at the Briton.

Arthur was snapped out of his daze, and he focused his eyes on Alfred. The Alfred that he just _kissed. _"Huh?" Was the intelligent comment that left his lips; lips that still tingled from the pressure of the American's wonderfully soft pair.

Alfred laughed, clear and beautiful- like church bells, and Arthur would scold him because it was foolish to laugh at this time in the night. But Arthur never did. In fact, a small smile graced the Briton's lips, and as Alfred spotted it, he reacted similar to the Briton when _he _had seen Alfred's grin. He smiled, too.

The time dragged on, they spent it in silence, both of them _happy _and _content. _And as they both dragged each other to their makeshift bed, they spent the night in each other's arms.

For the first time in his life, Arthur felt loved.

For the first time in his life, Alfred was truly happy.

And for the first time since this war, everything was beautiful.

* * *

**Erm... Sorry for taking quite long to update. Had a bit of writer's block in this chapter. (Sorry if it shows, too) Anywayyy.. review! It means a lot! And see you soon! (Hopefully...)**

**Now I'm off to the treadmill, and to read some USUK. **

**Bye!**

**Love, Jan. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four:**

Arthur awoke with a warm and fuzzy feeling buzzing inside of him.

But that warm and fuzzy feeling soon abandoned him as he saw no signs of his lover around him. Cold fear gripped at his heart, and shivers ran down his spine.

_Oh god, what if Alfred is going to kill me? What if he was just lulling me to a sense of security and-_

"Arthur! You're awake!" A voice called out from behind him, footsteps loud- Arthur didn't know how he didn't hear them a while ago, and he was pulled into a bone-crushing hug. "Well, look at you, Alfred. You're a very… _physical _person aren't you?" Arthur said; his voice muffled because of the mouthful of shirt he had.

Alfred let out a good-natured laugh- he seemed awfully happy today. "I got the materials!" He said, waving a sack around like it was food or something. _Speaking of food…_

Arthur hadn't eaten lunch or dinner yesterday. His stomach was oddly _not _growling and he knew that wasn't a very good sign. "You have? But it's so early in the morning, and have you eaten?"

"Oh, yeah. I did! Here, I got some for you." He shoved bread into Arthur's hands. Arthur took the bread with a thank you, and promptly stuffed it into his mouth. "Alright, Alfred now let me see your wound again. Give me the needle and thread, and hand over that bottle of alcohol." Arthur stood up and accepted the materials, gesturing for Alfred to get his shirt of, and started to fix the mark.

After a few moments, Arthur was finished. He told Alfred to sit still as he washed off the dried blood surrounding it, murmuring words to the younger man as he flinched in pain and salty tears trailed down his face. "Alfred, Alfred. Look at me, Alfred." Arthur murmured, brushing his thumb gently across the tear stained rosy cheek of his lover's. "It's all fine. I'm done, I'm done. It's not going to hurt any longer, Alfred."

Alfred's tears had long since stopped, the man staying quite, gazing down to the ground. His eyebrows were knitted tightly together, as if contemplating something. His lips moved, whispering the ghosts of words that Arthur could not hear.

"Arthur… I- I have to go." Alfred said, clear blue eyes laced with an emotion that Arthur did not recognize on the American. "W-well, alright. I'll be here, don't you worry."

Alfred stumbled away, footsteps growing distant and soon Arthur could hear nothing but the fluttering of wings high above in the trees, the trees themselves moving with the slight breeze of spring, and his own heart beating. Thudding through his thin chest, pumping blood into his veins. It wasn't as if he could smell danger, but he could swear that his skin prickled with what felt like it, danger.

Keeping himself calm, he reminded himself that it was probably because of his close-to-death experience just a couple of days ago. He of course calmed down, taking a seat close to the body of water near him. He gently cupped his hands and brought them into the water, splashing his face with the cold substance. Smiling now, he checked his supplies and his gun. Making sure it was fully loaded, and also noticing that his pack had a lack of bandages, he sighed.

* * *

The sun was already high up in the sky, and Alfred was still not back. Arthur was gradually starting to get incredibly bored, as he promised the American that he'd be waiting for him in this place. He started walking around, making sure that he was in near vicinity to the clearing. His musket was in his hands, though, just so he wouldn't be caught off guard at all. His footsteps were light and steady, his lips twitching a bit every now and then, trying to form a sort of grimace or smirk.

From the corner of his peripheral vision, Alfred could see a dash of blue here, and the wooden butt of a musket. Green eyes widening, the Brit quickly stumbled back to the clearing, musket held up, glancing back every few seconds. Upon making it safely back to his and Alfred's temporary camp, he took a quick swig from the canteen of water, sighing contentedly after hearing the gulp of water rushing down his gullet.

* * *

It was nearing nighttime, the sun was already setting and Arthur was on the brink of tearing his blond hair out of its scalp, and he was pacing back and forth, back and forth, worrying about that bloody Yank. His Shakespeare book was strewn beside his pack, he had read a rather large number of pages before the sun begun to disappear.

He decided that when, _if _Alfred gets back, he'd throw a big, giant tantrum and yes, he was definitely, positively mad at the stupid boy. Refilling the canteen of water for the fifth time, Arthur's eyebrows were bundled together in frustration, and his fingers fiddled with each other, not knowing what to do.

* * *

An hour or so passed. Arthur contemplated whether or not he should make a fire, and after a moment of indecision, he decided better to not. There was a chance that he might set the place on fire, and a bigger chance that his flame would lead the Yanks to him.

Arthur was already getting incredibly tired of waiting for the goddamned fool, and he was grumbling words to himself, throwing loud curses here and there, to nobody in particular. His brain had kept itself company by creating dozens and dozens of angry lectures he could give to Alfred, and Arthur was currently running some more not-so-good thoughts in his mind.

_A crack._

Arthur's head shot up, and he met a familiar American's gaze.

His brain quickly brought forward a sense of déjà vu, and his eyebrows furrowed lightly.

_A twig snapped, and an American rebel emerged from the woods. "Well, when they told me to scout the area for redcoats, I didn't think I'd actually find one." The man, holding his rifle up, said. "I hope this was a lovely surprise, then." Arthur said, his lips tilted up into a smirk._

_"It sure isn't a very nice one," The American said. Arthur noticed that he was pale, and sweating. "I got nicked by a, I don't know, maybe a small knife. The others sent me out hoping that you know, I'd just die here instead of bother any of them." He shrugged, a grin appearing on his face. "Well, if you're going to die, then why are you even bothering to actually scout?" Arthur replied, his gaze fixed on the much taller man._

_"I don't know; maybe so someone could just shoot me and get it over with?" The American said, suddenly dropping his rifle. "Shoot me, then." He pointed to his chest. "Shoot me right here." He said, in defeat._

It was difficult to believe that it was the very same Alfred now than before. This one was so cheery and warm, blue eyes reflecting the glint of the sun and teeth not far off. The other so depressed and with lost hope, eyes steely, their blue dull and lifeless, like a ragdoll's.

Now Alfred stood before him, in the same woods but not clearing, and in the dark, not light. A pretty smile graced his lover's lips, and Arthur found himself returning the favor. His lips tilted up slightly, and he quickly found himself in the American's embrace. All anger washed away, like writings on the shore of a beach and the sea water coming to wipe it off. A clean slate. Lucky Yank, Alfred was. "Hi, Alfred." His voice muffled, face burrowed in the chest of the taller man. The smile still playing on his lips, worry lifting itself off the small statured Brit's shoulders.

Alfred chuckled. "Hmm… Hi Arthur." He let go of the Brit, and placed a chaste kiss on the other man's pink lips. "I'm sorry I took long, I just had to confirm some things, and stuff. So, Arthur… You missed me, didn't you?"

Arthur spluttered. "No, I did not." He said to defend his deflating pride, and not wanting to seem like a clingy wife or some sort. Alfred laughed at this, loud, boisterous and ringing. "Ha! Keep telling yourself that, Artie. Don't worry, I missed you!" Alfred leaned in, lips capturing the other's fingers tangled in hair, and soon Arthur found himself leaning backwards.

Alfred hummed appreciatively, and their tongues danced together, one chasing the other. It was not a battle of dominance, yet it was lustful, passionate and every single touch felt like a flame was being ignited on Arthur's body and his skin prickled with heat as the cold air touched them and- _oh. _

Alfred's hands wandered down, hovering over the crotch of the green eyed Brit's. "Arthur… Can I…?" Alfred's voice was too breathy, too dreamy, and Arthur found himself hardening with that. His eyes were already hooded over, and Alfred's mirrored them. Arthur's head moved in a nod. He was fine with this; he'd done it before, of course, with a man, nonetheless.

"Hmm… Go ahead, lad." Arthur leaned back, letting Alfred undo his pants, and when it came off, he shuddered slightly at the cold. Their lips melded together again, and Arthur's fingers found themselves skillfully fumbling with the American's buttons.

Clothes found themselves strewn away into a big mess, Alfred and Arthur's breaths were harsh and quick, they were panting with heat and lust and love. Alfred was buried deep inside Arthur, and the Brit's eyes rolled back into his head, the man moaning with pleasure.

Alfred's lips wandered across the Brit's body, trailing up and down his smooth jaw, warming up his collarbones, and teeth marking his neck. Arthur gasped at this, and his nails dug into the tanned back of the younger man, earning a hiss from Alfred.

Time flew, moans were traded, gasps were heard, sweet nothing were muttered. Alfred and Arthur were still hazy, the Briton in the American's arms, face buried in the space between his neck and shoulders.

They held each other for a few more moments, and then Arthur wriggled free from the arms that held him prisoner- a happy one, but nonetheless, a prisoner- and started to put his clothes back on. "What are you doing?" Alfred queried, and Arthur just shot him a look. "What does it look like? I'm putting my clothes back on, of course."

"I know, but why?" The younger man whined, and pulled Arthur back down with him, receiving a yelp with a kiss to accompany it. They cuddled again, Arthur's small form completely engulfed by Alfred's bigger one.

"Alfred," Arthur began, voice soft and soothing. "Hm?" The other man replied, head still nuzzled into the nest of pale blond hair.

"You really should let me put my pants on. It's freezing." As if proving his point, Arthur shivered a bit. Alfred laughed, and placed a chaste kiss on the Briton's forehead.

"You don't need pants when you have me!" Alfred exclaimed, and Arthur replied with a soft noise, cuddling closer to Alfred.

"Hm… Maybe that's true."

And they fell to sleep, unaware of the pair of eyes watching them.

**God, guys. I'm really sorry. I didn't really get any inspiration for this goddamn chapter... and it still turned out bloody awful. And I recently (okay, maybe around a week ago) just posted the prologue of a new story I'm writing. It's called 'Monochrome', and is set Modern times. Basically, that story is a milestone darker than this one. Only, it isn't angsty, at least, I don't think it is yet. So if you guys wanna check it out, go ahead! It'll be much appreciated. **

**See you all soon, **

**Jan**


	5. AN

**Hi, everyone...**

**I guess this is the really annoying Author's Note- the one where I break the news that I'll be uh, discontinuing this story. I'm really, really sorry, and I really don't want to do this- believe me, I have a nasty habit of starting and not finishing, but I don't know how I'm supposed to write this story anymore. I mean, I've got the basic plot all done, the ending is written down, the characters are all finalized- but that one feeling when writing is just... gone.**

**I know that this is probably a very pathetic excuse for discontinuing a story... but no matter how many times i write and re-write (I'm already at 10 times, going on to 11) the chapters just don't feel right.**

**I'm terribly sorry, everyone. **

**Also, I've deleted Monochrome temporarily, or permanently, depends on the situation. You guys may look forward or not, to me posting some shorter stories, one-shots, and a couple of modern AUs. Yeah... I'm not cut-out for historical fiction...**

**Best Wishes- And please don't kill me-**

**Insert Letters Here. **


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